


See my worst at your best

by skullage (orphan_account)



Category: Block B, Winner (Band)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/skullage
Summary: It's been a year and a half, and Jiho hasn't stopped thinking about him at all.





	See my worst at your best

Minho’s soft _Ne?_ when he answers the phone blind-sides Jiho enough that he can’t respond, even though he was the one who called, and he’s the one who’s disturbing Minho’s self-imposed solitude. He’s lying down on the couch in his studio, because the way his heart beat too hard in his chest just scrolling through his phone for Minho’s number dictated that he needed to make this a casual conversation.

“Minho-yah,” is all Jiho can muster for the first few seconds, and then silence lapses again. 

“If I was a betting man, I’d have bet I’d never get another call from the famous Zico.”

“You’re too much,” Jiho says, but it fills him with the kind of emotions he hasn’t felt since the last time he talked to Minho, or maybe the last time he looked at Minho’s instagram, months ago now, a picture of him on his back porch with a mug of coffee and a contented smile and boots that were made for comfort, not fashion. “The country life hasn’t changed you at all.”

“You’d be surprised,” Minho says, in a voice grown richer with age, thicker like a bass instrument that filters into Jiho’s ears as if they’re not half a world apart but right next to each other. “I can fish now. I’m a changed man.”

“You know what I realised?” Jiho lets a small silence build over the line, teasing it out while he works up the courage to say what he needs to. “I’ve never visited you at your retiree cottage.”

“Yeah, that’s why it’s been so quiet.” Minho laughs, and Jiho hasn’t even realised how much he missed that sound. “I’m finally living peacefully.”

“I’ll just leave you to it, then.” He’s bluffing, because he wants Minho to chase him like he always used to do, following behind him, calling out to him, catching up to him.

Mino laughs again, lower, a sound that stirs the depths of Jiho’s being. “Anytime you’re free, you can always visit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Minho says, softly. “I’d love it.”

They arrange a time and Jiho hangs up with his heart still beating hard, the dust of the last few years kicked up and disturbed. He can’t back out now. Even if he cancels—and he’s thinking about it, texting Minho tomorrow with a _sorry, I didn’t look at my schedule_ knowing that it’s been years since Minho has looked at anything resembling a schedule long enough to know that Jiho would be bullshitting him—he’s still overturned those stones, and the feelings won’t rest. They never have. He’s never stopped thinking about Minho, even for one day. 

He continues to lie there with his phone on his chest and the sound of Minho’s easy laughter ringing in his ears until he absolutely has to move, thirty seconds before Kyung knocks on his door to take him to his tux fitting.

* * *

It takes Jiho five hours to drive to Yeongam—four to actually drive there, and one to meander around along the way while he tries to pluck up the courage to finish the journey. The first peek of Wolchulsan feels like a discovery he’s made, and it settles it for him; he’s already come this far, and seeing Minho can’t hurt more than what the last few years have done to him, with Block B on indefinite hiatus, Winner disbanded for a year and a half, and no word from Minho in almost as long.

The town has all the hills and greenery of quaint village life with enough industrialism in the main part of town to remind Jiho he’s not as far away as he could be. If Minho really wanted to remove himself, he could have gone farther than four hours out from Seoul. He could be in China or, shit, back in Australia. Jiho has to weigh up whether he would have the guts to fly to another hemisphere on the promise of whatever Minho left behind him when he left for good.

He passes pastures and harvests and phone booths, all of which are charming and exactly the type of thing Minho would and has spent his days photographing when Seungyoon comes to visit, his Instagram page an ode to the simple life he seems to revel in after so many years of hard work in an industry that immortalises you at the same time it forgets your name as soon as you step offstage. It isn’t that Minho was unhappy when he was in Winner—there were times Jiho had never seen him so happy—but the life does lend itself to a weariness that can drag a person down, and Minho weathered it, the fame and the hate and the end, with as much dignity as a person could. Jiho couldn’t pinpoint a moment he was most proud of Minho, because Minho made him proud in so many ways.

He double checks the address on his GPS as he pulls up outside a brick-clad structure with pale brick facades and arching windows that look like mouths and eyes, the yellow-lit insides making it stand out even starker against the rest of the neighbourhood. The whole place looks like an emoticon. Jiho almost can’t believe it.

He opens his phone to text. 

_I’m here, about twenty years in the future apparently_

Minho’s reply is immediate.

_Meet me out the back_

It seems very pressing that Jiho take a minute to just sit in his car, imagining all the ways this could go. He is—not nervous but. Something. Expectant and hesitant and cautious. He used to joke about Minho moving into the mountains to escape from him, but after a while Jiho stopped thinking of it as a joke. Maybe Minho did need to escape, not from him but from everything else. He opens the door and gets out, and he spends the walk around to the back of the house kicking himself for taking his time while also kicking himself for coming here so soon.

He can smell barbecue before he gets there, can hear music playing, something soft and sweet and melodic, and Minho singing along even before he rounds the bend. Minho stops halfway between the back door and the table with plates full of meat in his hands when he spots Jiho, and it takes a second, a whole second that Jiho spends wondering if this is a mistake, if it’s not too late to just turn around and leave, before Minho breaks into a smile. He stands there for a few more seconds, with this big smile on his face, while Jiho stands rooted to the spot. Eventually Minho drops the meat onto the table and scoops Jiho up in a hug that Jiho returns with just as much force, jumping up and down like they would have ten years ago. Minho’s hands come to grab onto Jiho’s shoulders and pull him in tight.

Even when Minho pulls back he doesn’t let go, patting Jiho down as he takes him in, and Jiho does the same. It’s midday and Minho is still wearing pajamas. Real pajamas, not whatever Ellesse scraps he used to sleep in at their height of Winner’s influence when he would get things thrown at him like the star he is, but drawstring, lumpy, comfortable pajamas, tucked into the kind of gumboots only Song Mino could make fashionable. He’s not even trying this time; somehow the plaid of his pajama pants, the oversized sweater, the peacoat, and the rain boots make a complete outfit, but it’s nothing that Minho would have worn five years ago. He did used to _try_ , at least.

“Look at you,” Minho says, and his voice is the same rich timbre Jiho heard on the phone, except now they are right next to each other. It’s different hearing it in person instead of on the radio or through his laptop speakers, but good-different, better.

“Yeah,” Jiho says, when what he means to say is, look at _you_. Minho’s still roughly the same size, Jiho’s size, and they used to joke about it—when they were younger, before they’d filled out, before they’d even debuted—how they could barely fit on a mattress together. Jiho used to wonder how awkward it would be if he pinned Minho down and climbed on top of him, if they could fit that way. “Did you bring enough for me?”

Minho looks back at the mountain of meat and then back at Jiho with a disappointed sigh. “You know what, I would have, but I figured, since you’re a big shot still, you could afford your own meat.”

Jiho looks at Minho, then at the food, then back and Minho, making a face at him in warning for when, a split second later, he races Minho up the porch steps. They’re not as young as they used to be, and Jiho sits down at the barbecue harder than is entirely necessary, Minho practically sitting on top of him as he plonks down next to him. 

He all but gapes when Jiho reaches for the tongs. “Hyung, are you going to cook for me?”

Jiho shrugs and starts loading the meat onto the barbecue. “I’ve been taking care of you for so long it’s second nature. You probably haven’t had anyone to cook for you in awhile, sequestered in the mountains like this.” Jiho doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Maybe he wants to make himself useful for Minho, or memorable.

Minho shrugs. “I get plenty of visitors, and I make Seungyoonie cook for me when he comes. Seunghoon-hyung and Jinwoo-hyung came to visit last week.” Minho starts to talk about their visit, how they brought their pets, Haute and Rei and Bei who are getting on now, and the newer ones, the menagerie of animals they have, to keep Jhonny company. She likes having the house to herself though, Minho says, and as he does, as the meat starts to cook it draws her from the house and she comes to rub her face on Jiho’s knee. Minho takes the tongs while Jiho is distracted petting her and adds more meat to the barbecue. 

In turn, Jiho tells him about Kyung’s impending wedding. The memory of Kyung’s latest meltdown about the colour of the groomsmen’s cumberbunds springs to mind, and Jiho and Minho laugh about it until they double over. A couple hours pass with them talking and eating, and it’s so simple, and so refreshing, Jiho’s fear are assuaged easily. Surprisingly, it’s just as comfortable between them as it always has been, the two of them existing on the same wavelength that makes it easy for Jiho to share something from his new album and for Minho to beatbox along, picking up the beat with ease. 

Minho shows him the garden he’s been working on, all the winter vegetables he’s growing and the way he explains all of them, what to expect and how well they’re going to grow, Jiho almost can’t believe Minho’s the same person he used to know. Minho never settled for calm before. He liked the sharp sting of a challenge, always trying to prove himself and be better, stronger, smarter, more on trend. Now he potters around a garden wearing gumboots and holding a flamingo-shaped watering can.

“What?” Minho asks, smiling a little when he catches Jiho staring.

“Nothing,” Jiho says, trying not to smile himself. 

“Oh!” Minho says, jumping up from out of the garden. “Drinks.”

“No no no,” Jiho says, putting a hand on Minho’s arm to stop him. “I can’t, I’m driving.”

Minho’s face falls. “You’re not going to stay?”

Jiho feels a pang of guilt, but he promised himself he wouldn’t. It will get too complicated if he stays. His feelings have only grown over time, and even now they threaten to cloud his rational thoughts. He should keep them in check by leaving at a sensible time. “I have to get back to the studio.”

“Hyung,” Minho says, almost pleading. “We haven’t seen each other in a long time. Have a drink with me. Stay the night.”

Jiho takes a deep breath and, against all better judgement, he relents. Minho brings out a couple bottles of soju and a couple bottles of wine, and that’s how the afternoon begins. 

“Are you worried?” Jiho asks, sometime into his fourth glass of wine. “About conscription.”

Minho’s nose is rosy from either the drink or the cold, and Jiho reaches out to pinch his cheek, which he allows. “No, not worried. Everyone else has already been, I’m the last one, and if you all can get through it, I have nothing to worry about.” He’s almost twenty-nine, and he’s right, everyone else in Winner and Block B went before him, even Seungyoon and Jihoon. 

Jiho takes another shot, but he’s still not up to talking about his time in the army. “You’ll do well,” he says, instead, “you always do.”

Minho gives him a curious look when usually, before, years ago, he would have blushed. He looks like he’s trying to figure Jiho out, and it stretches between them like a string about to snap. A hundred things come to Jiho’s mind, things he never said and things he still doesn’t want to say, so he shuts his mouth and keeps them in. 

Minho pulls out his phone and shows Jiho pictures he’s taken over the years, only some of which were featured on his Instagram feed. Jiho mostly watches Minho talking, the shapes his lips make as the words tumble out of them, the way his eyes light up as he laughs at his own recollections. It aches in a way Jiho can’t describe, like an old wound reopening, to see Minho like this—happy—and not be with him. 

The sun sets and it’s too cold to stay outside, so they move in, Jiho picking up the leftovers while Minho cleans the grill, before they settle on the couch in the den. It’s eerily, heartbreakingly domestic. This is the life they could have together, Jiho thinks, spreading out on the couch as Minho does the same. It’s big enough for both of them, but they end up with their knees touching, Minho’s arm on the couch behind Jiho, resting his chin on his hand. 

He never used to, but time changes a person, and Jiho now starts to get melancholy after too many drinks. He has to look away from how Minho plays with his glass, running his fingers around the rim.

“What,” Minho says, after Jiho has already turned his head.

“Nothing,” Jiho says, before he changes his mind. “Do you still,” he starts, unsure of where he’s going until the rest rushes from his chest and up his throat and falls out of his mouth. “Do you still want me?”

It’s not something they’ve ever talked about. Jiho could tell, by Minho’s glances, by the fancams he saw of them at award shows and the few times they performed together or collaborated on programs, by the way their arms brushed when they bunked together in the dorm, by the silences that stretched between them, not unlike this one does now, when it was just the two of them in the recording studio, when Jiho would comment on one of Minho’s lyrics and Minho would give him that look— _that_ look, that for so long Jiho thought Minho had transferred to Seungyoon—that made Jiho’s heart beat so hard in his chest he felt like he was going to throw up. He could tell these things.

But he doesn’t look at Minho now, in case what he used to see isn’t there anymore.

“Forget it,” he says, laughing, staring out into Minho’s lawn through the arched windows. Minho doesn’t even have a tv in the house because he spends all his time in his garden, or fishing, or working on his art. Jiho wishes for something to break the silence other than his own words. “I’m drunk, you know. Just—forget I said anything. I should go to bed or something.”

He wants to go, but he’s trapped by an inability to move, and there’s a different silence this time, a loaded one. 

“Hyung,” Minho says, finally, but Jiho brushes him off.

“Forget it. Where’s the spare bedroom?”

When he stands he fusses around putting his glass down and pulling his coat around himself, only looking up when Minho calls out to him again.

“Hyung.”

Minho’s wearing such a look of vulnerability it stops Jiho from leaving. It stops him from being able to do anything. 

“You don’t have to let me down—” Jiho starts, before Minho cuts him off.

“I never stopped.”

“What?”

Minho looks him in the eye when he repeats himself. “Wanting you. I never stopped.”

Jiho feels foolish standing while Minho’s still sitting, so he sits again. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Minho says, laughing. “ _Oh_. Did you come all this way to ask me that?”

“No, I,” Jiho starts, before he stops himself. “I mean, I guess. I don’t know.”

He looks up again and meets Minho’s eyes. The thing is, Jiho knows Minho’s eyes. He’s seen them in every environment—including dazzling sun, barely-lit recording studio, Seoul sunset—and he knows what Minho is thinking just by the look in them, because Minho has never tried to hide any part of himself, from Jiho, from his fans, from the cameras. Even after all these years, that hasn’t changed. He looks in them now, and they betray what the last few years have done to Minho. 

“I kept wondering when you’d put it into action,” Minho says, with humour, despite how hurt he is. “I’ve been pining all these years.”

Jiho feels a stab of annoyance. If only one of them had been organised enough to do something about it, maybe he wouldn’t have spent the last year and a half in emotional agony. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you needed to figure it out.”

Jiho scoffs and slumps back against the couch. “I already did, when we were eighteen. You wrote that post on one of the songs I posted online. ‘Teach me your ways, have your way with me’. That’s what you said. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Minho colours, hiding in his glass of wine. “I really said that? I don’t remember.”

“You called me, ‘the resurrection of Tupac’.” Just thinking about it Jiho gets a feeling in his chest he can’t describe. 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Minho says, and Jiho’s heart drops low in his stomach. After all these years he still takes Minho’s words harder than most. “You’re not Tupac, you’re you. You’re your own person. You’re one of a kind.”

This, Jiho thinks, would be the perfect moment to kiss him, but he doesn’t, and the moment grows longer than necessary until Minho coughs and puts his wine glass down. “I should go to bed, too. Come on, I’ll show you to the guest room.”

The whole time they walk upstairs, Jiho can feel the current in the air between them, the feeling of something about to snap, the anticipation of touching each other, this time with purpose. But he doesn’t close the distance. Minho shows him to his room, and pulls out some pajamas for him, and tells him there’s a spare toothbrush in the ensuite, before he stops back at the door.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he says, drumming his fingers on the door jamb. “I was really lonely without you.” Minho leaves before Jiho has a chance to say anything, so he just goes to bed, the same sentiment whirring in his mind.

* * *

They haven’t seen each other in a while, and Jiho forgot how useless Minho is in the morning. His hair sticks up from the way he slept, and it takes him thirty minutes just to open his eyes as he’s bumbling around the kitchen making coffee still smelling like his morning cigarette. He smokes the same brand as he always did, Jiho can smell it on him, in his sweat, on his clothes. He doesn’t mind it, as long as he doesn’t have to inhale the smoke himself.

“I’ll make some breakfast,” Jiho offers, and Minho replies with a grunt before he slumps on the couch with an espresso. “I don’t really have to get back so soon. Kyung made me have my tux fitting yesterday, even though the wedding isn’t for another month.”

“And the studio? What are you working on?”

Jiho shrugs. “Some solo stuff, always. Stuff for my girl group.”

“You’ve really turned into Poptime-hyung, haven’t you? The main producer for your company. You’re like Hongjun-hyung, producing for girl groups.”

Jiho gives Minho a smile. “I thought I was one of a kind.” He starts pulling out leftovers from Minho’s fridge and reheating them, which is easier than making something from scratch. At least Minho is eating well, a lot of fish and grains and vegetables. At least he’s taking care of himself, since he has no one to do that for him.

“I was thinking we should go to Wolchulsan,” Minho says while he’s eating. Jiho is mostly pushing food around on his plate, still thinking about the night before. It would have been easy to leave his bed and get into Minho’s crawling in beside him to feel his warmth and solidity, and yet, it was too hard to even take that first step. No wonder they still haven’t gotten together. 

“I’d like that,” Jiho says, and half an hour later, once they’ve showered and dressed and Jiho’s borrowed some of Minho’s clothes, they set out by car to the mountain. Minho smokes another cigarette in the parking lot before they head out while Jiho waits in the car, but he doesn’t mind. It’s another snapshot of what their life would be like if they were together. 

Minho’s wearing actual hiking boots and has two carry bags of water and snacks for the trip. He’s an entirely different person, now. The walk up the trail to Cheonghwangbong is short but steep, and Jiho’s puffing by the time they reach Cloud Bridge, struggling to catch his breath. 

“You’re really that out of shape?” Minho asks, but he can’t talk, he smokes and is faring only slightly better. 

“I have asthma,” Jiho replies. The view from the bridge is terrifying and magnificent, and Minho seems to love it, humming as they make their way along. “How’s Seungyoon?” Jiho asks, and it sounds suspect to his own ears, hearing his voice so high and forcibly casual.

Minho shrugs. “He keeps busy.”

It’s a rocky mountain, and that makes it more fun, as though the mountain has more personality in its stones and rocky landings than if it was soil, less trees so there’s more space to really look at the sprawling landscape when they reach the top. It’s empowering being up here, as if they are kings surveying a kingdom, with all the land spread out before them, theirs for the taking. The snow stretches for kilometres, and it’s breathtaking.

The air is so fresh up here, away from the pollution and wet-garbage smell of Seoul; it soothes Jiho’s aching lungs, and makes him feel alive. “I always wondered,” he says, feeling bold, as if somehow being away from concrete civilisation makes it okay to say these things, “why you two never got together.”

Minho laughs in a self-deprecating kind of way that emphasises the apples of his cheeks. He’s standing off to the side near the drop, and Jiho wants to grab him, pull him back, save him from the danger he’s in. “He was never interested in me. I don’t think he’s interested in anyone like that. Besides, I think he could tell I was hung up on someone else.”

“Did you want to?”

Minho gives him a look of scrutiny that weighs heavy on him. “For a time, yes. It doesn’t matter now. I wanted to be with a lot of people, but none of that ever eventuated.”

Jiho wants to take a step forward, he wants to go to Minho now and prove him wrong, but his body won’t cooperate again. His biggest strength is that he’s always been able to move and adapt and grow, but right now he stays stuck in one place, hoping Minho will close the distance for him. It’s simple; there’s no one around. They haven’t seen anyone all morning. No one would have to know.

It was Jiho’s decision to come. _He_ called _Minho_ , and here they are, standing apart as if they’re strangers, gazing across a patch of stone while the sun shines on them and birds twitter in the snow-topped trees. He was scared for the longest time of putting things into action, as Minho phrases it, but with his new American debut happening soon and Kyung’s wedding next month, he’s had a lot of things put in perspective. 

He can’t move his body, but he can use his words. “I want to be with you. Now too, even then. I still want that.”

Minho’s eyebrows rise and he opens his mouth, but no words come out. Jiho thinks of walking back down the mountain and leaving the awkwardness behind, getting into his car and going back to the life sans-Minho he’s been living for what seems like the longest time. It’s not ideal, but the agony of the awkwardness between them, his inability to move and make the decisions he’s wanted to for years, cripples him almost as badly as these past few years have. 

Minho makes the decision for him. He comes forward and grabs Jiho’s pea coat in his gloved hand and pulls him in until their mouths meet. For a moment, Jiho doesn’t respond, still paralysed by indecision, but then his brain catches up with him and he kisses back. Minho’s nose is cold against Jiho’s but his lips are warm and soft; he tastes like the sour twist of tobacco, an inherently Minho taste, and fruit he snacked on on the way up, the ripe sweetness of strawberries that Jiho chases from his mouth. His heartbeat slows with each moment that passes as they tease each other and Minho sucks on Jiho’s bottom lip. 

It takes several minutes for them to break away, as if once it’s started it can’t stop. Jiho breathes out slowly, his breath misting between them. 

“Was that,” Minho says, and Jiho laughs.

“Yeah, it was everything I thought it would be.” He feels weak after the last day of near-constant anxiety. Just kissing Minho lessened it, and he wants to go back to that, to that feeling of being calm enough to enjoy himself.

“I meant, was that okay?” Minho laughs, tugging on Jiho’s peacoat, shaking him. 

Jiho grabs Minho’s hips, not pulling him in but making his intentions clear. “Yeah, let’s go.” He takes Minho’s hand and pulls him along while Minho laughs.

“Where are we going?” 

“Back to yours,” Jiho says, careful not to slip on the snow, helping Minho down. 

“Don’t you want to see Gujeolbong Peak?”

“No,” Jiho says, a low growl. Now that’s he’s animated, he has purpose. It takes effort not to push Minho up against a tree and kiss him and rut against him like he wants to, so he settles for guiding Minho along back down the mountain.

“What about Maaeyeoraejwasang?”

“What?” Jiho’s not paying attention to anything but the pink tinge on Minho’s ears when he looks back over his shoulder. 

“The Buddha. Not even the forest?”

“It’s covered in snow.” The trek down takes less time than it did going up, but Jiho’s on edge, worked up and frustrated in a way he hasn’t been in years, since before he knew how to curb his desires. He feels nineteen again, lying by Minho’s side after practice, trying to pluck up the courage to touch him in a way that was deliberate and would carry the meaning he intended. 

They make it across the Cloud Bridge again and Jiho manages to push past his very real fear to get to the bottom of the mountain. The people gathered in the parking lot, the first they’ve seen today, prevent Jiho from pressing Minho up against the car to kiss him again, but it’s probably for the best. He keeps his hands to himself as Minho drives the short distance back to his house, and silence elapses between them again, but it’s comfortable, filled with the sound of Minho’s jacket moving as he does, the heater in the car running, the sound of the car’s wheels on the road, the mundanity of living without a thousand noises and screens around him. It fills Jiho up in a way he’s not used to; it satiates him.

The heater is still on when they come back into the house, so Jiho takes off his layers as soon as they get it, hanging his coat up by the door, leaving his shoes, discarding his sweater on the couch. Minho is slower, toeing his boots off and then following Jiho into the den as he unzips his jacket. There’s nothing inherently sensual about it, except for how Jiho already knows Minho’s body, how it moves and how it feels, solid in his hands but unconfined. As Minho takes his jacket off, Jiho tugs at his scarf and lets it drop from Minho’s neck onto the floor at their feet, and there’s nothing inherently sensual about that, either, but Minho’s gaze grows heated and he doesn’t object when Jiho pushes him down onto the couch with a hand on his chest only to climb into his lap. 

Minho makes an _oof_ sound, says, “You’re heavy,” and laughs, which Jiho silences with another kiss. Minho’s a better kisser than what Jiho imagined him to be, but the only time he let himself imagine was when they were teenagers and it was okay to without the threat of someone finding out and ruining their careers. They didn’t have careers. It would’ve been okay back then for Jiho to kiss Minho, like he’s doing now, to lick into his mouth, to press their tongues together. He doesn’t know if it’s okay now, if the window for being able to live a comfortable life has passed. Maybe they’re just deluding themselves thinking this can be something more than it is, if that’s what Minho is thinking. Jiho tries not to, in case it isn’t. 

“I can’t believe this,” Minho says, pushing Jiho’s hair off his forehead. He’s still got his gloves on, and bites on the finger of each one to pull his hands out and toss them away. “I pined for over a decade. Since _high school_. And now you track me down and force me out of my solitude…” Minho doesn’t sound angry about it. He’s smiling, his lips curled up, his perfectly straight teeth showing. Jiho presses his finger to where they used to overlap but Minho tilts his head back. “Stop.”

“What?”

“Stop being weird.”

“Am I being weird?”

Minho sighs and puts his hands on Jiho’s hips. It feels right, even that small gesture, and Jiho relaxes. Minho squeezes once, and Jiho feels a thrill run through him. He thought he wanted to pin Minho down, but maybe what he wants is the other way around, Minho’s weight on top of him, Minho pressing him into the couch, or the floor, or a bed. 

“Sorry,” Jiho says, and Minho shakes his head as if to clear it. “It must be the mountain air.”

“You’re always weird. It’s the price of being a creative.” He pulls Jiho in for another kiss that’s just as soft as before, only this time he pushes his hands under Jiho’s shirt. Jiho shivers at the contact, more frustrated than ever. They’re moving at a glacial pace, like the snow falling on the windows, but the build up is good, it turns him on even more to have Minho come to him so slowly, making the last twelve years worth it. He feels the pressure building up in his body and raises his arms for Minho to lift his shirt off. 

Sometimes he feels self conscious, especially in front of new people, but he doesn’t with Minho. They know each other so well it seems impossible to separate what they think they know about each other from what they really do, and Jiho lets Minho explore his body with his hands, his imperfections, his softness, the sensitive parts of him. 

“Your turn,” Jiho says, pulling Minho’s shirt up until Minho sits forward and he can take it off. Minho’s grown soft over the years, but Jiho likes it, he likes knowing what Minho looks like when he’s looking at him like this instead of through a screen. He gets to touch him back, and Minho responds with soft noises and by closing his eyes against the feeling of Jiho’s hands on him, utterly responsive, destined to be Jiho’s downfall. 

Jiho starts to grow hard just watching him and touching him, and at the sound Minho makes when Jiho reaches for the waistband of his tracksuit pants. “Can I?”

Minho nods, his eyes wide, anticipating the movement of Jiho reaching his hand in and feeling for Minho’s cock. Minho makes another sound, a rushed-out breath that turns into a groan when Jiho takes him out and wraps a hand around him. 

“I missed you,” Jiho says, kissing Minho again, “you have no idea how much. Every day I’d wonder what you were doing, who was taking care of you, how happy you were. It drove me crazy to think we existed so close to each other but weren’t in each others lives. It hurt me.” Minho kisses him eagerly, inhaling Jiho’s words as he speaks them into Minho’s mouth, and breathing them out. “Keep touching me.” Minho obeys, smoothing his palms up Jiho’s sides, touching his shoulders and chest. 

Jiho looks down to watch the Minho’s cock disappearing into his hand as he strokes him, and it doesn’t take long until Minho is hard. Jiho’s wanted this for so long it’s difficult for him to frame it right in his mind now that he’s finally getting it. He thumbs over the head and smears the precome gathered there, wanting to taste it, taste Minho, so badly he climbs out of Minho’s lap and sinks to the floor, shouldering his way between Minho’s knees to mouth at him. 

The noise Minho makes goes straight to Jiho’s dick, as does the taste of him, the weight of him, and the feeling of him in Jiho’s mouth. His fingers run through Jiho’s hair, and it’s long enough to tug on, so Jiho grabs Minho’s hands to curl them for him to get the hint. Minho does, and the stimulation of both those things is almost too much, sucking him while he pulls on Jiho’s hair.

“Do you like that?” Minho asks, sounding a little awed and a little confused. 

Jiho makes a noise to convey his answer, humming around Minho while starting a rhythm of sinking down on his cock. Minho is thick and heavy and long, and Jiho works him over at a steady pace, relaxing his throat and jaw, sinking down as much as he can until Minho comes into his mouth. Jiho swallows and laps the rest up while Minho swears and takes a minute to grow soft, touching Jiho’s face, tipping Jiho’s head back to kiss him. 

“Why’d you do that?” Minho asks, but he doesn’t sound mad about it. “I wanted to fuck you.”

Jiho laughs. “If you fuck me, I won’t want to leave.”

“You want to leave?” He sounds a little hurt, and that’s the Minho Jiho knows, the one who lets his feelings get in the way of everything.

“Just to—Mino-yah, I still live in Seoul. I have to leave eventually.”

“You can’t just stay a few days? Let _me_ take care of _you_. You deserve it.”

Jiho wants nothing more, but he knows if he stays a couple more days he might as well stay forever, and he has shit to do, he’s got a life to lead. He can’t spend all his time wrapped up in Minho. He sighs and grabs his shirt. 

“What are you doing?” Minho grabs his hand to stop him walking out, and Jiho’s weak for it, he let’s Minho keep him there.

“If I stay, I’m going to stay, I’m going to end up living here with you, and I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Minho looks sad, as if he knows what needs to happen but won’t accept it just yet. 

“Because I have a life in Seoul, and your life is here. I can’t expect you to come live with me in my one bedroom apartment—”

“Do you _still_ have that apartment?” Minho asks, laughing.

“—I’m probably going to move to America next year, and you’ve made it clear you want nothing to do with that life anymore.”

“Maybe that could change,” Minho says, but he doesn’t sound too sure about it, and Jiho’s not willing to structure his life around maybes. He tugs on Jiho’s hand until he sits. “Or maybe we can make something work. We can visit each other, a lot, Seoul’s only a three hour drive away. We could make that work.”

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure that I want to be with you, and I want to have a life with you, I don’t care where that life is.” Minho is so sincere in everything he does, and his face betrays that, his eyebrows knitting together, his expression soft. 

Jiho thinks about that for a minute while Minho plays with his fingers. “It would be really suspicious if you moved to America with me, so I think we should just settle for me coming to see you. I still have a lot of business here—programs and the company. I won’t be gone for too long each time. I’ll visit.”

“That’s enough for me,” Minho says, leaning over to kiss him again. They get a little carried away, and Jiho is reminded that he didn’t get off, but it’s not a pressing issue. He needs to leave soon, but Minho reaches out for the waistband of his sweats, getting a hand in them, touching Jiho’s cock. Just the contact of Minho’s hand on him makes him hiss, and then Minho’s pushing him into his back and moving over Jiho, resting on his elbow above him. Having Minho’s attention focused solely on him has always made Jiho feel too big for his body, like he’s going to burst out of it from how much he feels, his limbs too long and gangly and stupid, but Minho touching him like this makes him feel like everything is how it’s supposed to be. Minho pulls him out of his sweats and strokes him until he comes on his stomach. 

As Jiho lies there, feeling blissful in the best way, Minho moves down his body between his legs to lick at the mess on Jiho’s stomach and kiss his skin. It feels like too much, having this attention lavished on him when he’s about to leave. “I have to go,” he says, groaning when Minho bites him lightly before he moves back up Jiho’s body to kiss his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Minho says, in between kissing him. The way he cradles the back of Jiho’s head makes him feel safe, and warm, and happy for the first time in years. He doesn’t want to leave, and he doesn’t want the feeling to fade, but leaving Minho is only going to be harder the longer he stays. Being with Minho is easy and natural and the way Jiho feels about this situation is strange, as if he misses something he never had. He missed Minho, is what. He missed not having the opportunity to touch him like this, even though he never took it. It burned in the back of his mind, a thought that blurred into everything he did when he was around Minho, never being able to keep his hands to himself very long. Touching his knee, his shoulder, his thigh, his hand, that’s all it ever was. It hurts to think about, just like leaving hurts now.

Jiho finally disentangles himself from Minho and reaches for his shirt, tucking himself back in. “Oh,” he says, looking at it, “I’ll go find mine.”

“Keep it,” Minho says, still lying on the couch, propped up on his elbow. “I like that you’re wearing something of mine.” Jiho shrugs, pulling it on. He makes his way to the bedroom to collect the rest of his clothes, the jeans and t-shirt he was wearing yesterday, folded and left on the bed. Minho meets him at the front door, trying his best to smile. He’s pulled his sweater on and Jiho tugs at the hem of it.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Jiho says, laughing at the way Minho’s expression drops. Jiho pulls on the rest of his clothes and shoes. “I know this is hard. But I’ll come visit again in a couple weeks before I leave.”

Minho nods. They stand there for a moment pretending there’s nothing else they want to say before Minho wraps Jiho up in a hug that surprises him. It shouldn’t; Minho’s always been a hugger. A crier, too, but thankfully he’s not crying now. He kisses Jiho again, lightly this time, holding Jiho’s face in his hands, and Jiho feels satiated and hungry at the same time, wanting more while knowing that what he’s had is enough. 

Minho walks him to his car and Jiho gets in, winding down the window to look up at him as he leans one arm on the roof while the snow falls around them. Minho’s not wearing shoes and the ground must be freezing. “I’ll come back, okay? A couple weeks.”

“Yeah,” Minho says. "Happy new year." 

Jiho wants to kiss him again, wants to kiss him so good Minho will be thinking about him the entire time he’s gone, but he can’t while they’re in the street, so he drives away instead, watching Minho in the rearview mirror until he rounds the corner and is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> do u ever just write the same fic over and over again like its your penance and ur the dumb bitch who never learns lol


End file.
